


Just Beneath the Skin

by sinclairsolutions



Category: GreedFall (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Established Relationship, M/M, Terminal Illnesses, Transformation, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 05:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26467936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinclairsolutions/pseuds/sinclairsolutions
Summary: It hadn’t looked so painful when it had happened to Vinbarr—but then, Vinbarr had given himself over to it willingly, in the heat of a battle for the soul of his homeland. De Sardet was resisting. All that he had done to build his life here, and yet he still had the heart of a renaigse, unwilling to give back what he had so easily taken. He cared too much for what he was leaving behind to consider this an honor.
Relationships: Kurt/De Sardet (GreedFall)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15
Collections: Quiet Life Bingo Fills





	Just Beneath the Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this hurt a whole lot to write, and I am determined that all y'all should suffer with me.

Not for the first time, De Sardet lamented how little he had appreciated his youth while he'd had it. That wasn't to say it had been without pain—the thick, twisted scar tissue covering his abdomen had brought him more than his fair share of it, and more than a few sleepless nights with only crushed herbs held under his tongue for some meager relief. But he'd been young then, and foolish; he'd gritted his teeth and carried on past the agony, taking pride in the fact that he could. He'd felt the backlash of his magic sear the flesh under his ring and boasted that it was nothing to him. It was something to him now, when the joints of his fingers refused to bend, and he wished for all the world that he could reach back through time and slap his younger self for his arrogance. He'd called it selflessness back then, as if the only thing standing between his people and destruction was his own willingness to give himself to anguish.

He'd been an idiot. A self-important idiot, too, so determined to be a martyr that he'd never stopped to consider whether it was actually necessary. If only he had known better (or, rather, if only he had listened to Petrus’s numerous warnings), he might have taken more care. Not that looking back did any good. It couldn’t repair his body, nor bring back everything he’d lost, but the only other option was to look forward, and the way forward was unthinkable.

Unthinkable, and yet inevitable—he could no more run from the future than from the feathers that littered his pillow.

He gathered them quietly as Kurt slept, careful not to brush against the other man and wake him, holding the secret close to his chest along with each long feather. For a year now, he had been keeping it. That first morning, there had only been one, its vane stark black against the sheets; now there were well over twenty, not even counting the others sprouting from his forearms. He yanked one away from the skin harshly, and a thick rush of blood flowed from it and soaked the wood beneath his feet as he stumbled over to the washbasin.

A mirror was mounted on the wall above the basin, and when De Sardet looked into it, he clapped a hand over his mouth and stared in wide-eyed, silent horror. The changes had been coming for years already, new branches twisting out from under his hair, his mark expanding until it covered most of his face, but this… His teeth were sharp like a dantríg’s and set much too far apart to be comfortable on a human face, the complexion of which was less like human skin and more like the bark of a young tree. He stepped back, and when his weight shifted, the knee twisted back, and pain shot up from his calf, as if it was trying to bend at a joint that didn’t exist. His back ached, too; atop it, his shirt was wet, and when he reached around to run his fingers across the fabric, they came back red and sticky with his blood. “Shit,” he hissed, his voice too quiet even to be called a whisper.

The change was coming too quickly. There was no way to hide what he was becoming from Kurt any longer. But he stayed silent nevertheless, as if that would keep his husband asleep forever, as if Kurt’s ignorance would hold him fast to the life they’d built together.

The life he’d be leaving soon, if en on mil frichtimen had anything to say about it—and apparently he did.

De Sardet didn’t even manage to get his shirt off before it tore, the sound distressingly loud in the stillness but not loud enough to conceal the cracking of bone. He bit his lip until it bled to stifle a shout of pain, and when he turned to see himself properly in the mirror, he very much wished he hadn’t. The flesh of his back had split where the nadaig’s wings were rising out of it; they pulled at what skin remained as they flexed, and the muscle and sinew were visible beneath, under the sickening sheen of blood that coated every new feather.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his attempt at secrecy finally abandoned. The pain was too much, the sight of his own blood, the throbbing of his muscles as his new wings struggled to break free. It hadn’t looked so painful when it had happened to Vinbarr—but then, Vinbarr had given himself over to it willingly, in the heat of a battle for the soul of his homeland. De Sardet was resisting. All that he had done to build his life here, and yet he still had the heart of a renaigse, unwilling to give back what he had so easily taken. He cared too much for what he was leaving behind to consider this an honor. The shame of it burned across every inch of his mark.

“Green Blood…” De Sardet was far past that title by now, but Kurt still called him one anyway; in all their years together, Kurt seemed never to have forgotten the spirited, foolhardy child who’d thrown sand in his eyes and called it a combat strategy. He hoped Kurt would remember that when he was gone, and not this, his broken wail of agony as one wing tore loose and spread itself across the span of their bedroom. It loomed over them like the darkness of a storm cloud as Kurt rushed to his side, its shadow cast wide across their unmade bed. Feathers scattered to the floor around them, dripping with his blood.

It wasn’t until Kurt took him into his arms that De Sardet realized he was trembling—that they both were, both unmoored and seeking out comfort that neither one of them could give. There was no comfort in the world for an end like this. “Kurt,” he whimpered, and he let the sorrow in his voice carry the words he dared not say:  _ I don’t want to die. I don’t want to leave you. I’m scared. Help me. _

“I knew it was happening, but I thought…” Kurt let out a shaky sigh and left the words unspoken. De Sardet knew them, anyway; he’d thought they would have longer, too.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, and he choked on his own tears as Kurt pulled him close. “I’m so sorry, Kurt.” He’d thought himself well beyond bawling openly like an infant, but with Kurt’s arms around him he surrendered, just as he would tomorrow when they journeyed to the mountain together, and en on mil frichtimen took him for one of his thousand faces. He surrendered, and he wept.


End file.
